Viking Mystery
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke grants a fantasy that calls for another trip to Lilla Jordsö's distant past.  Follows 'Out of Tragedy, Hope'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Another time-travel fest. As ever, thanks to PDXWiz, jtbwriter, Kyryn, Harry2 and Bishop T, and good reading to everybody. I still have a good dozen or more ideas waiting for development, but I welcome plot suggestions from anyone who might have a sudden brainstorm. Meantime, enjoy!_  
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§ § § -- January 16, 2004

It was Christian and Leslie's third wedding anniversary; and they woke up that morning to the noise of hammers pounding nails, power saws splitting lumber, and men's voices shouting, sometimes laughing. They looked at each other with a particular rue, and Leslie grinned. "Obviously we overslept. They wouldn't come here before nine and wake us up, that just isn't polite."

"But I thought they knew it's our anniversary," Christian grumbled, tongue-in-cheek. "After all, the entire island knows, don't they?" Leslie burst out laughing, and he grinned at her and swung out of bed. "So exactly what was it we were planning to do today, then? You have to see the doctor when, again?"

"Monday the 26th," Leslie said. "Another ten days. And in case you didn't notice, my love, that's at least the twelfth or thirteenth time you've asked me that since my appointment last month. For heaven's sake, you've really got to stop worrying so much!"

Christian sighed. "I've told you before, I always worry about you. I worried more when we learned you're pregnant…and now, ever since Dr. Hannaford showed us that we're having twins, I worry more than ever. I'm sorry, Leslie, but perhaps I love you too much, I don't know. Which is why I asked Mr. Roarke not to dispatch you on any missions in the past if he can help it."

Leslie sat up in bed and stared at him. "You did what?" she asked.

Christian stopped halfway to the bathroom and eyed her a little warily, as if he'd recognized the ominous undertone in her voice. "You heard me…" he began.

"Yes, I did…and I think that was a little presumptuous of you," she remarked, getting up. "Christian, it's part of my job. If Father gets any time-travel fantasies and needs help, then I'm it. I'm not even halfway through my pregnancy and you're already—"

"You may be fine now," Christian retorted, "but what happens when you're days from your due date and suddenly you find yourself in King Arthur's day, trying to convince Guinevere not to have that damned affair with Sir Lancelot or something, and you go into labor right there in medieval England? Imagine the incredibly unsanitary conditions that must have prevailed in those days! The babies could die, and fate save me, so could you!"

Leslie folded her arms over her chest and gave him a look. "You realize that what you're saying demonstrates a fantastic lack of faith in Father's judgment and intelligence, Christian, don't you?"

Christian groaned aloud, let his head fall back and addressed the ceiling with, "It's not so much that I have no faith in Mr. Roarke's judgment—more so in yours to heed his cautions." He lowered his head and met her gaze, and she instantly recognized the imperial look in his eyes. "With twins you're bound to deliver sooner than was originally estimated, and I absolutely won't take the chance of your giving birth in some filthy little Dark Ages village somewhere."

"Oh, I'm sure," said Leslie with a loud sarcastic sigh. "And of course, it would play utter havoc with the twins' birth certificates. I mean, what in heck would we put on the line that asks for the date of birth?" Christian glared at her and she rolled her eyes. "Cut it out, Christian Enstad, I mean it! You can worry if you really have to, but when you start trying to control every move I make—and even every move Father makes—that's it! Why under the sun does every man suddenly think that his wife's pregnancy entitles him to strap her into a wheelchair for the next nine months?" She suddenly felt her stomach roll, as she hadn't in several weeks, and her eyes widened unconsciously. "Get out of the way…" she blurted and darted past him, slamming the bathroom door on him.

Having lost whatever remained of the previous night's supper—which by now was primarily stomach acid, leaving a burning sensation in the back of her throat—she spat into the toilet a few times, then flushed and moved to the sink, vigorously rinsing out her mouth and then swishing a generous amount of mouthwash before straightening to her full height and eyeing her abdomen in the mirror. Leslie smoothed the fabric of her favorite old nightshirt over it and smiled; it was becoming clear that she was pregnant, rather than just gaining too much weight. "Your father thinks I'm taking too many chances," she told the twins, wondering if she was talking to boys or girls. "I don't think he realizes that your grandfather's already started lightening my duties as his assistant. He's overreacting, though. You guys are barely four months old in there, but I guess he thinks you're going to be born tomorrow morning."

There was a sharp knock on the door. "Leslie, will you kindly come out of there? It's becoming urgent that I get in," Christian hinted, sounding a little irritated.

"Just don't pay any attention to Daddy when he starts throwing around silly orders," she said in a soft, confidential voice to her pregnant middle. "He used to be a prince, and he sometimes forgets he isn't one anymore…although of course, your cousin Gabriella might change that if—"

"_Leslie!"_ Christian barked from the other side of the door.

"Geeeeez," she moaned softly and threw the door open. "It's all yours, Your Highness." They shot each other exasperated looks as she marched out and he dodged in, slamming the door behind him with some urgency. Leslie heard him curse in _jordiska_ after a couple of seconds, and snickered to herself, going to the dresser for something to wear.

Though Leslie herself didn't drink coffee, she had grown used to Christian's habit of a morning cupful; so she got his little coffeemaker started while she looked dubiously through cabinets, unsure as to whether she really wanted any breakfast. She took her daily dose of prenatal vitamins and washed down the somewhat unpalatable liquid with a glass of calcium-fortified orange juice while considering her choices and wondering why she'd been sick after over a month of feeling fine. _Just an aberration, no doubt,_ she thought. _I refuse to be like my husband and blow up every little thing into some earthshaking news story._ She finally gave a little shrug and took two breakfast bars out of a box in a cabinet, putting her shoes on at the door and wandering outside to check on the progress of the addition to the house while absently munching on a bite. The workmen waved at her and she grinned.

"Looking good, you guys!" she called out after swallowing a mouthful. The exterior was nearly done and the interior was roughed out; there was already an access entrance to the ground floor from the living room, though it was currently sealed off with a sheet of translucent plastic. She and Christian were going to have to sleep elsewhere for a few nights while an entrance between the upper-floor sections was chopped out, smoothed over and painted. She had suggested walling off the spiral staircase on two sides so as to allow a little privacy, some years in the future when the twins were old enough to climb the stairs to their rooms on their own and their parents might want to close themselves off from view; Christian was still considering that, wondering if it was going to look odd in the spacious room.

"Won't be long before we can get going on the inside and you and Prince Christian can start decorating, Miss Leslie," the foreman assured her.

Leslie grinned. "Sounds great," she said. "I can't wait for that."

The men laughed and wished her and Christian a happy anniversary, and she waved at them and wandered back into the house. By the time Christian came down, she was in the middle of the second bar and had refilled her juice glass, and stood at the French doors to the back yard, gazing into the trees. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Fine," she said. "Your coffee should be ready."

He didn't respond, and she stood watching birds battling one another for shares of the seed at the feeder that hung from a tree. Then Leslie felt Christian draw up beside her and lightly rest a hand on the small of her back. "The birds are hungry, aren't they?" he said a little diffidently, his gaze following hers.

"Looks that way," she agreed amiably. She turned curiously to him and asked, "Didn't you get some coffee?"

"Ach, in a moment," Christian said dismissively, sliding his arm around her waist and drawing her in close. "I thought it was more important to let you know I'm sorry if I seem to be overreacting to everything. But I'm old to be a first-timer for all these things—old to have fallen in love for the first time in my life, old to become a first-time father…"

"Oh, that's your excuse—old age," Leslie teased, and she laughed when he rolled his eyes. "I know, my love, and I realize you're a little scared. Listen, I'm scared too. Mostly I'm scared of going into labor. My friends have told some pretty hair-raising stories, and of course they've terrified Lauren practically beyond rationality. But I've wanted so much to be pregnant that I think the whole thing's an adventure."

Christian raised an eyebrow. "Even being sick as you just were?"

"Yup, even being sick," said Leslie and laughed again. "I'd prefer not to be, of course, but it's just part of being pregnant. It's too soon to go bonkers over what I should and shouldn't be doing in this condition. You can ask Dr. Hannaford week after next if you doubt me, but it's true. Anyway, Father already restricted some of the more unusual aspects of my job, so don't get the idea that I'll go into labor while they're signing the Magna Carta or Ivan the Terrible's having his nobles beheaded from his monastery."

Christian chuckled ruefully. "I think I'm crazier than you are right now. As I said, I don't distrust Mr. Roarke; but I know your stubborn nature. If there's a chance for you to travel back in time and the twins are due within five days, I'm afraid you'd want to go."

"No, I wouldn't do that," said Leslie. "But if something did happen unexpectedly, it'd be okay. Father'd know—he has a way of sensing things like that. Don't ask me how, he just does. If I went into labor in the middle of some Roman Empire fantasy, he'd have me back here in minutes."

"All right, all right," Christian conceded with mostly good grace. "I'd still rather you didn't go, but I guess I'm being a bit too paranoid. And it looks as if your appetite's back."

Leslie grinned and agreed, "Good thing! I've started getting really hungry lately. Mariki's going to love that. I just hope she doesn't try again with those so-called family recipes she was throwing in front of me a couple of months ago. I have no idea what she was putting into them, but they really tasted awful—and that's not just because I'm having food cravings either. You'd have loathed them too if you'd tried them."

Laughing, Christian hugged her gently, mindful of the breakfast she was still holding. "I can believe that. They didn't smell very good from where I was sitting. Now, before I forget and really upset you, let me just say this…happy anniversary, my darling Rose." He kissed her, and for several minutes they forgot the rest of the world; then the phone rang and they broke apart, laughing again.

The caller was Tabitha. "Leslie, I hope you didn't forget that maternity-clothing exchange we put together for this evening! I know it's yours and Christian's anniversary, but it gives us a chance to give you some cards as well as trading clothes."

"No, I remember, don't worry," Leslie assured her. "I'll be there at the time we settled on. Actually, Christian and I took the day off, so we don't have any other concerns going on today, and I won't forget. Anybody hear from Lauren?" Lauren was due in another month or so, and by now she was in a constant state of panic, fretting over going into labor too soon or too late, meticulously watching her diet, moaning that she looked as if she were fifteen months pregnant with quintuplets, being energetically kicked by the fetus, and driving Brian to distraction. The other girls found her very funny, though they were careful not to laugh right at her; she had become incredibly sensitive, and Lauren wasn't the only one who couldn't wait for her baby to be born.

"Not yet," Tabitha said, "fortunately. It's too early to go through the litany again." They laughed. "So are you still working?"

"As long as I can," Leslie said. "Christian's up in arms in case we get time-travel fantasies, but otherwise he hasn't objected. I tell you what, I can't wait for that party. None of my clothes fit anymore, and I can't even wear any of my usual work outfits. Father told me it's all right to wear maternity clothes, and they don't have to be white, but I'd sort of like to keep the continuity, you know. I'm probably going shopping today."

"Oh, that party," Christian said when she'd hung up. "I did forget. Do you think you'll need to look for anything other than something suitable for work, then?"

"I don't know," said Leslie, "but I'm not going to get anything extra till after we've had the party. I know Myeko and Camille and Tabitha and Katsumi will be thrilled to get their stuff out of their closets finally, and I imagine Lauren'll have contributions, since she's much farther along than Maureen and I are. And they had some really cute stuff, too."

"And how long are you planning to take?" Christian inquired with a suggestive little smile. "I have some plans of my own for today, you know."

Leslie grinned. "I bet you do! Don't worry, my love, we'll have plenty of time for that. In fact I'll probably come back that much quicker so I can find out what you have in mind." They both laughed and settled down to breakfast.

§ § § -- January 17, 2004

"That's a very stylish dress, Leslie," Roarke remarked, taking in the white sheath in a sturdy, stretchy fabric, lined with black at the collar, sleeve holes and hem and accompanied by a matching short jacket and Leslie's usual flats. "You made a good choice."

"This should serve for at least three months," said Leslie, "that's what they told me at the boutique in town. It's nice and cool too, which is great because there are days when I'd swear I was running a fever, I'm so hot. Dr. Hannaford said that's normal."

Roarke teased gently, "We'll try to keep you in air-conditioned environments when we can. Ah yes…here comes our first guest: a fisherman from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Mr. Benjamin Hulden. You'll find his fantasy intriguing, I believe."

"Why's that?" Leslie inquired.

"He is descended from fishermen who originally emigrated from Lilla Jordsö, and he has always had a particular fascination for the country. He's studied its history in all aspects and seems to have a particular interest in the early generations of the royal family, when legends proliferated and speculation persists. Specifically, he would like to resolve the question of whatever happened to young Prince Ulf Magnusson, the younger of King Magnus Ormssvärd's two sons."

"Don't tell me," said Leslie, "we're sending him back to Lilla Jordsö in those days."

"Precisely," said Roarke. "And it has occurred to me that he may have need of a…shall we say, a technical advisor." He smiled, and Leslie had to grin as their next guests began to disembark; she wondered what Christian was going to say about this one.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- January 17, 2004

Benjamin Hulden was an attractive blond man with pale-blue eyes and looked to be in his early thirties; he was trim and fairly muscular from years of working on fishing trawlers and had the perpetual tan of those who make their living outdoors. He greeted Roarke and Leslie, commented on the study as so many guests did, congratulated Leslie on her pregnancy and three years of marriage to Christian, and then took the chair Roarke gestured toward. "I hate to sound like some kind of groupie or something," the Canadian chuckled, "but I was hoping maybe I could meet Prince Christian."

"Perhaps that can be arranged," Roarke said. "However, since you are obviously here to realize a fantasy, I think it might be prudent if you would tell us a little more about it."

"Right," said Hulden. "I just thought maybe Prince Christian would be interested in hearing about it too, since it's one of his ancestors."

Roarke and Leslie looked at each other, and she grinned. "I have a feeling he would," she remarked. "I may as well call him over."

When she had made the call and Christian had told her he was on his way, Roarke had refreshments brought out, then studied their guest. "How did you become interested in this particular event?" he asked.

"Partly on account of my ancestry," Hulden told them, "and partly because I have an interest in the royal family. It's the longest unbroken dynasty of any royal family on earth, and it amazes me that the current ruling queen is directly descended from the original king who founded the country over nine centuries ago. Not too many families can boast the ability to trace their lineage back that far, royal or not. The funny thing is that there are so many wild legends about the first three or four generations of _jordiska_ royals. You'd think that…" He paused when Christian came in through the French shutters, and they all looked around; Hulden instantly stood up and bowed. "Your Highness!"

Leslie and Christian grinned at each other, and Christian came deeper into the room, extending a hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said, "but you really need not call me that."

Hulden shook hands. "I know, but it doesn't seem right not to," he said, shrugging.

Christian laughed. "You're not the only one," he said. "So what can I do for you, Mr. Roarke? And you, my darling, how are you feeling?" He paused long enough to kiss Leslie.

"I'm fine, my love," she assured him. "This is Benjamin Hulden, from Nova Scotia, and he has a fantasy that involves a certain ancestor of yours."

"Oh, this sounds interesting," Christian remarked, taking a seat and helping himself to some of the juice Mariki had brought out. "Which one?"

"Prince Ulf Magnusson," Hulden said, and Christian's eyes widened.

"Oh? Ormsskägg's hapless younger son? You must be quite a student of my family, to know about him." He caught Roarke's raised eyebrows and Leslie's perplexed look, and let out a laugh, wrapping one arm around his wife.

"Ormsskägg?" Hulden repeated blankly.

Leslie giggled and told him, "I'll have Christian explain it later. Right now, why don't you tell us about your fantasy—and why the prince was 'hapless', as Christian put it."

Hulden refilled his glass. "Right. Well, as I was saying, it's amazing how many weird little stories there are about the early royals. You'd think that someone would've tried to look into them and figure out what really happened. But this was the one that intrigued me the most. It seems Prince Ulf Magnusson was kind of a hard-luck type. He wasn't gonna get the throne, being the younger son, and I guess he never figured out what he was good at in life. When he finally discovered that he made a decent Viking captain and started carrying out raids, the era of the Viking was already on the wane and he couldn't expect to keep it up till retirement age, y'know? But he kept on trying, and some reports say he brought back some woman who came from somewhere in the Far East, something like that. He didn't make much of a name for himself, and he sure didn't get rich. He didn't even have that many followers."

"You should speak with my sister," Christian observed. "She's the family historian, and you two could compare notes."

Hulden grinned at that. "I wonder if she'd know anything about Prince Ulf's mysterious death. He just up and died, all of a sudden, and nobody ever recorded the cause of death. The records stated that he died, and that was that. But at the time he wasn't thirty yet, and even back in those days a lifespan could last plenty longer than that."

Roarke nodded. "Christian, do you have any other information?"

"Very little," said Christian. "As I said, he was the hapless younger son. There's no record that he married or sired children; actually there's almost nothing about him at all. His birth is mentioned in the family records, and the legend Mr. Hulden refers to suggests that his death was a suspicious one. So it's less a legend than an unsolved mystery, I suppose you could say. Since no one explained his manner of death, it's not even known where he died. That is, whether it was during one of his voyages, or perhaps in between."

"I did all the research I could," Hulden put in, "and found that there's a statement about his having died at sea. But that doesn't mean it was on a voyage. He could've fallen off the cliff behind the royal castle or something…" He cut himself off and shot Christian an embarrassed look. "Sorry, Your Highness."

Christian laughed again and said, "I remember telling someone once, years ago, that it's hard to feel related to a person who lived so many centuries before you did. It's more of a family murder mystery than anything to evoke sorrow, this many years removed from the actual event." He lifted his glass, asking, "What do you propose to do, then, solve the mystery for us?"

"That's what I'm hoping," Hulden replied with a nod as Christian drank some juice. "So what I'd like to do is go back to the early twelfth century and maybe figure out what really happened to Prince Ulf. Can you do that for me, Mr. Roarke?"

Roarke nodded. "I can, yes. However, I will need some time to prepare; so if you like, Mr. Hulden, you can relax at your bungalow, and Leslie will come for you when we are ready to send you back. Will that be satisfactory?"

"Absolutely," said Hulden with great anticipation. "Can't wait…thanks, Mr. Roarke!"

When he was gone, Roarke took in his daughter and son-in-law, then asked, "Christian, how do you feel about another trip back to your family's distant past?"

"I'm game," he said, "but quite honestly, Mr. Roarke, I think you had better leave Leslie out of this."

Leslie groaned, "Christian, I thought we settled this!"

"I still don't want you going back," he insisted. "I told you I've already mentioned this to Mr. Roarke, and I don't want you to argue with me about it. I know you won't go into labor, but something else could come up, and I don't want to take any chances. You are pregnant, and I just don't think you should be running around through time!"

Roarke cleared his throat and they both stared at him. "I realize you are concerned, Christian," he said, "but there is such a thing as being too careful."

"In the waning days of the Viking era?" Christian demanded incredulously. "I still say no! I don't know what I can say that would make either of you understand!"

Roarke sighed quietly, then said, "Very well, Christian. Since the thought of having Leslie with you seems to distress you so severely, so be it." He saw Leslie's mouth drop in outrage and lifted a hand. "Not a word, Leslie Susan. I think it might be wise to try to preserve some measure of decorum before we embark on this fantasy, and quite frankly, there is no time for another petty argument between the two of you in any case." He handed Leslie a slip of paper. "Please go and get these items from the storage room, if you will, and I'll prepare Christian for the trip back." Leslie took the page with a mutinous look in her eye, and on the way out of the room she blasted Christian with a fulminating glare that made him shake his head in exasperation.

"That stubborn wife of mine!" he murmured, though as always, his deep love for her underlay his frustration.

"My stubborn daughter married an equally stubborn prince," Roarke commented, "and there are days when I wonder how the marriage thrives as it does." Christian blinked, and he smiled. "Leslie is in less danger than you like to think, Christian. However, we won't discuss that now. There is too much to do to get you ready."

"How am I to fit into this fantasy?" Christian asked.

Roarke considered it. "Perhaps the wisest thing is to assign you to your ancestor's side, as an aide," he said slowly. "Your appearance can be altered enough that Mr. Hulden won't recognize you as your true self."

Christian stared at him. "Does that mean I'm going to die alongside my ancestor?"

"No, Christian," Roarke said, "the objective here is merely to solve the mystery of the young prince's death. Never fear, you'll come through this in safety. Ah, yes, thank you, Leslie." She had returned bearing a pile of furs, a pair of leather boots, an iron helmet and a sword in its scabbard. "If you will, please give those to Christian; and Christian, you may change in the time-travel room."

Christian took the clothing and went in to change; Leslie watched him, holding the helmet and sword, shaking her head. Roarke looked askance at her, and she muttered, "The nerve of him, forbidding me to do my job! Father, really, why do people flip out over a pregnancy? Everybody thinks that stuff I've done dozens of times before is going to kill me now that I'm expecting! It's too bad no one's that solicitous of my welfare when I'm _not_ pregnant. There are days I just want to shake him till he gets some sense back."

"Be patient with him, Leslie," Roarke said with an amused, indulgent grin. "You know he worries about you. He simply wants to be certain you and the babies come through this pregnancy in one piece—all three of you."

"We will," she retorted, "if he doesn't smother us first!"

Roarke laughed, and at that point the door opened and Christian emerged, clad in his Viking-era clothes. "They fit well. I don't know how you do that." Roarke just smiled, and he gestured Leslie forward to join Christian in the time-travel room.

"In the time you are traveling to," he explained, "King Ormssvärd is deceased, and his son Thorsten Magnusson holds the throne. His widow, Gerda, will still be alive, and of course, you are aware that there were also two daughters whom you may meet. Are you ready?"

"I believe so," Christian said, attaching the scabbard to his leather belt and then carefully sliding the sword into it. He took the helmet from Leslie and experimentally tried it on while she and Roarke watched. For a moment he peered at them through the eyeholes, then removed it, staring at the inside. "It fits well enough, but it's going to be very uncomfortable if I have to wear it for prolonged periods," he remarked.

Roarke smiled. "Better discomfort than death," he said.

Christian raised an eyebrow. "True…" At this point Leslie reached for his hand and pulled his wedding ring off the third finger, then removed his Rolex. "Oh, thank you, my Rose…I had forgotten." He smiled at her.

She gave him a disgruntled look and muttered, "Dammit, Christian, just be careful and watch your back, all right?" She didn't wait for his response but turned and left the room. Christian looked at Roarke.

"Did she really wish to come?" he asked.

"Need you ask?" Roarke inquired whimsically, and Christian grinned sheepishly. "I believe you're ready. Allow ten seconds from the moment I leave this room, then go through that door there and close it behind you. You won't have to wait long."

In the study Roarke found Leslie standing near the desk, examining Christian's ring as if looking for secrets. She looked up when he came in and asked, "Father, honestly, do you really think it's such a good idea to let Christian go back there all alone?"

"No," said Roarke, surprising her. "Yet I have strong enough misgivings about sending you back that I hesitate."

Leslie gaped at him in disbelief. "Father, he's brainwashed you!"

"That will do, Leslie Susan," Roarke said firmly. "Please go to Mr. Hulden's bungalow and bring him back here, if you would." She shook her head, put the ring on Roarke's desk and left the house in silence.

When she returned with Benjamin Hulden, Roarke thanked her, then handed the man another pile of furs and leather along with a pair of boots. "You may change in that room," he said, "and when you are ready, please let us know."

Hulden looked thrilled by the time Roarke and Leslie joined him in the time-travel room and Leslie had given him a helmet and sword. "This is fantastic," he said, staring down at his Viking attire. "Where'll I be going, exactly?"

"You will begin in the midst of Prince Ulf's final voyage," said Roarke. "You may wish to acquaint yourself with the prince's aide, for I believe it will be your best chance to keep an eye on the prince. Are you ready?"

"Been ready forever, Mr. Roarke," said Hulden with a grin. "Let's go!"

Leslie waited in the study while Roarke sent Hulden into his fantasy; when Roarke returned, she watched him till he inquired, "Is there a problem?"

"What're you going to do about Christian?" she wanted to know.

Roarke studied her for several minutes; then he sighed quietly to himself. "In view of his insistence that you not be allowed to endanger yourself and the babies, it appears I have no choice in the matter," he said. "This is what I must do…"


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- January 17, 2004

Benjamin Hulden stepped out of a thick fog into a slightly thinner one and stood as still as he could for a few minutes, aware of the rolling motion of the surface under his feet and grinning to himself. He was an old sea dog; this fantasy should be a piece of cake, if the whole thing was going to take place aboard a Viking longship. But he took his steps carefully all the same, not sure what he was going to encounter here.

"Becalmed, are we?" someone roared angrily from up ahead. The fog made him sound as if he were miles away. "Then in Thor's name, row!"

"My prince, the men put their full backs into their work already," said a second voice in calming tones. "We see nothing before us and cannot gauge our progress."

"It's this damned pea soup, is what," said the first voice grumpily. Hulden picked his way forward past benches filled with men rowing as if for their lives; they were so intent on what they were doing that they didn't see him moving past. "This miasma so engulfs us that we should not know we had reached land until we beach ourselves. And we with women below! Our provisions run low, and they merely sit and wail rather than contribute to getting us home."

"There is no sound from below," the second voice pointed out. Hulden thought he sounded a little dubious. "Perhaps they have perished already, my prince."

"Take a man and go below to look," the first voice ordered.

"As you will, my prince," replied the second voice, and a few seconds later a very tall, blond, bearded man emerged from the fog almost directly in front of Hulden. "Ah, you'll do. Follow me, man, so that we find out what lies belowdecks. Something other than death, I should hope. Thor's hammer, this enrages me…"

"Pardon me," Hulden said hesitantly, "but I didn't realize Vikings went on raids just to bring back women."

"We belong to Lilla Jordsö," said the blond man sternly, "and we seek women for the men who continually crawl onto our shores. There are too many of our fellow Swedes who have been conscripted into service with the Norwegians and Danes and cannot make their way home again, or are unwilling to. The stories we hear! There are so many younger sons who have nothing to gain by remaining in their homeland. They come without women and cast covetous eyes upon those who are already wed or betrothed. My prince has made it his mission to find women for these men. They will be the future of our kingdom."

"Who exactly is your prince?" Hulden ventured.

"His Royal Highness, Ulf Magnusson, the younger son of our revered first king," said the blond man, stooping long enough to grasp a rusty iron ring and use it to pull up a heavy square trapdoor in the stern, between the last two rows of benches on either side. "If I dare say it, methinks he hopes to find his own woman amongst the captives, but as yet he has not. Though he suggests there may be one for me as well." The last came out in a disgusted mutter. "I have told him I wish it not, for I…" He stopped and stared at Hulden over his shoulder. "Why do I tell you my problems? We have work to do, and then you are to take up an oar and earn your keep. Follow me."

"What's your name?" Hulden wanted to know. Any information he could get for his personal records would be a plus, he thought.

The blond man grunted, "I am His Royal Highness' trusted aide, Rolf Johansson, once Swiftsword. I fight no longer now that I am appointed royal aide. Get down here, nameless one. You plainly have an unfortunate tendency to prattle." Hulden felt his face go hot, but he fell silent and descended a short ladder in the bigger man's wake. Turning around, he froze at the foot of the ladder and stared. Twenty or more women were chained to sturdy iron rings fastened to the bulkheads; most of them flicked listless, uninterested glances at him and the blond man as they passed by. But one, near the bow, rose into a defensive crouch and watched the pair with glittering eyes as they approached.

"They are low of spirit, I fear," Johansson muttered, surveying the women on his way toward the bow. "If we do not soon reach shore, they may perish yet."

"Not that one," Hulden said, indicating the crouching woman ahead of them.

Johansson gave him an odd look, then twisted around to see what he was talking about. He stopped in his tracks and stared as if mesmerized, while the woman glared back, bracing herself easily on the gently rolling deck and not moving a muscle. Johansson drew in a sharp breath and muttered something Hulden couldn't figure out.

"You okay?" Hulden ventured after a moment.

"How did we acquire such a one as she?" Johansson asked in a bare whisper, without ever taking his eyes off the woman.

Hulden squinted. The light wasn't good and he could make out only that the woman had incredibly long, cascading dark hair. "What's so different about her?"

"Do you see nothing, you fool? She comes from Cathay!" Johansson hissed, his eyes still locked on the woman. "How did she come to be on this humble craft?" While Hulden watched, Johansson stole forward, coming to a stop just beyond the woman's reach. "Have you some name, then? How do you find yourself so far from home?" His voice was gentle, amazing Hulden. _Vikings can be nice guys?_ he thought incredulously. Then he wondered what "Cathay" was before racking his memory and recalling that it was the old name for China. This only astonished him all the more. No wonder Johansson seemed so stunned. How many Chinese women wound up captives of Viking raiders?

Johansson slowly stretched out one arm toward the woman, and she hissed at him, then seized him and yanked him forward with all her strength. Caught totally off guard, Johansson pitched forward and landed hard on his stomach, evoking laughter from those of the other women who were watching. The Chinese leaped atop the prince's aide and began to pummel him; shocked into action, Hulden sprang forward and dragged her off Johansson, who had barely had time to regain his wits and had been unable to even ward her off.

"The little savage!" Johansson snapped, jumping back to his feet and backing away a safe distance, panting slightly. "Is this how Chinese respond to soft words?"

"You'll get nowhere with that one, you great brute," remarked a young woman at Hulden's side. "She is highly born—a princess in her own right. And before you mark her, you should know that the prince has already claimed her as his own. If you seek a wife, you are well advised to search elsewhere."

Johansson glared at her. "And who are you that you know this?"

"I traveled a great deal with my father before I was captured by these fools," the girl said. "I learned fragments of her language on one of my journeys and have been able to speak with her a little. Prince Ulf got but one glimpse of her and announced to all who could hear him that she is his, and other men touch her at their peril." She eyed Johansson with a sly little smile; Hulden could see that she was pretty, under the layer of grime on her skin and her long, lank, dark hair. "I, however, am yet unclaimed. If you seek a wife, I do not object to your attention."

Johansson muttered, "Time will dictate what comes. But as you appear to know so much, then you might tell me who in this hold is dead, and who yet lives."

"We all survive," the girl said, "though some only barely. Why have we not yet found land? Your prince announced with loud confidence that land lay but three days away from Scottish shores, and we have been floating here nearly a week."

"We are mired in a fogbank that refuses to lift," Johansson told her. "The men row at the prince's order, but I fear it is only wasted effort. How are we to find land when the fog is so dense as to render one blind?"

"A compass, of course," Hulden said without thinking.

"Are you then a fool?" Johansson demanded. "We can hardly fix latitude without the sun to cast a shadow. How came you here in any case? Of what use are you?"

Hulden cleared his throat, realizing too late that there would have been no magnetic compasses in this day and age. "Never mind," he said. "But you have a point about rowing in the fog. How does the prince even know which way he's going?"

"He does not," Johansson said gruffly, then gave Hulden a long stare. "And since it is you who has made this grand discovery, then I appoint you as the one to so inform His Royal Highness."

Hulden wondered for a moment if this might have been how Prince Ulf had lost his life: rowing futilely in the fog and then being thrown overboard by frustrated, enraged men… He cleared his throat again. "Maybe he _should_ know," he said and started back for the hatch to the upper deck, aware of Johansson's astonished eyes on him the whole way.

‡ ‡ ‡

Christian wasn't sure how many more surprises he could take. The first had been meeting his ancestor within a minute of stepping into this scenario, and discovering not an uncertain, scrawny lad but a strapping and weatherbeaten man with a stentorian voice that cut through the thick clouds around them as easily as any modern foghorn. The second was the thought that if his father and brother had been named, even in part, for this Prince Ulf, then King Arnulf I at least had inherited more than just the name: he'd gotten the bluster and some of the loud voice that Christian remembered all too well from his youth. This prince reminded him often and uncomfortably of his father, and he wondered whether the impression would be justified, or diminish as he grew to know the prince better.

The third was that old King Ormssvärd's son had known him instantly, the moment he had appeared at the prince's side. "How be the men, Rolf Johansson?" was the first thing he'd said to Christian. That told him that Rolf Johansson was quite likely an actual historic figure, who must have played some major role in the prince's life even though as far as Christian knew, his name had never been recorded in the sagas.

The fourth surprise was the change in himself. Though there were no mirrors to be had, his beard and hair were long enough for him to make out the fact that they were blond now, instead of the glossy deep-chestnut brown he'd had all his life. As in his and Leslie's first jaunt to Lilla Jordsö's ancient past, his hair was longer than he liked to keep it; but this time around his beard was quite substantial, as he'd found when he gingerly explored his face. He wondered if his eyes were still the same color.

And now the fifth surprise: this Chinese princess. As far as he could remember, either from his school studies or whatever history Anna-Laura had regaled the family with at dinner through the years, no Viking ship anywhere in Scandinavia had ever taken a Chinese —male or female—in any raid. The Vikings, especially the Swedish ones who had been more explorers than raiders, had ranged to quite a few exotic places, but they'd never made it to China as far as could be ascertained. Christian wondered where this longboat—and its royal captain—had been before he stepped into this increasingly bizarre scenario. He knew he couldn't ask: he was simply supposed to know. He watched Benjamin Hulden nimbly navigate his way to the ladder and wondered if the guy was intrepid enough to ask the questions that Christian couldn't because of his alleged foreknowledge. _Ach, better him than me,_ he thought. _And then, of course, there's this young lady here…_ He focused on the grimy woman who had told him the Chinese captive was a princess. _If Mr. Roarke let Leslie talk him into sending her back here—that stubborn wife of mine! Could this be her?_

"You show interest in me," the woman observed with a smile. "That is to the good. The Chinese belongs to the prince."

The Chinese. Christian frowned and turned again to stare at her. She glared back at him with obvious hatred and fury, but he still felt heavily drawn to her. That disturbed him on a deep level. He supposed it was Roarke's way of teasing him because he'd so adamantly forbidden Leslie to take part in this fantasy. _Strange manner of teasing, and not really like him, but then again, who knows…_ The second woman was right: he'd better leave her to Prince Ulf, but for reasons other than those he'd been given. Whether Leslie was here or not, he didn't want to betray her. He returned his attention to the second woman. "Have you some name by which I might call you?" he inquired, speaking in the same archaic _jordiska_ he had used on the first trip back.

"Aye, I am Catherine," she said with a smile. "Abducted from London a good fortnight ago. I could see the direction in which the wind blew, and I did not resist. I have heard of this place we are sailing to. A new, clean land, is it not?" Christian nodded and glanced at the Chinese again, then resolutely put her out of his mind, sighed heavily and began to retrace his steps.

"We thought you came here to feed us," a woman yelled at him from the port side.

"There are enough provisions remaining for only one meal a day," Christian told her gruffly, "and it is not yet time for that meal. His Royal Highness and his men eat no better than you, so you have no complaint to make. Our priority now is landfall, if we ever escape the clutches of this accursed fog." Determinedly he strode on, climbed the ladder and picked his way back to the bow on the top deck. The fog was as thick as ever.

"…But Your Highness, don't you think it's better to conserve the men's energy until the fog's lifted?" he heard Benjamin Hulden ask. Christian rolled his eyes to himself. If the prince was as stubborn as Arnulf I had been…

"We have not the provisions to sit wallowing in the sea until then," the prince said impatiently. "Who are you to question me? I have decided, and I have given the order! This fogbank cannot stretch on forever. If we row, we shall surely escape it somewhere." He saw Christian approach. "Good, Johansson, what are the conditions below?"

"The women all live, my prince," Christian replied. "That Cathay princess is a fierce one. Think you that you can truly tame her? Has she even the ability to speak our tongue?"

"I myself shall teach her," Prince Ulf announced. "Only a princess for a prince, is this not so? Not for me a commoner, as my mother was before my father claimed her."

"Your father was a commoner himself before landing on our shores," Christian pointed out, without fear of retribution. "He took no airs, and if he elevated himself above the people, he always provided protection and was generous to them."

"But he was born a commoner and ascended to royalty," Prince Ulf said with his nose in the air. "I was born royalty. No prince takes a commoner to wife!"

_My wife is a commoner,_ Christian almost said, remembering only at the last possible second to hold his tongue. He wasn't even a prince—not only in this scenario but in real life as well. He simply shrugged instead. "As you say, my prince." It was surprisingly difficult for Christian to show such deference to anyone; he was still too used to the privileges that came with the rank he'd been born with. He'd reconciled himself to it by deciding that Prince Ulf's eight-hundred-odd years on him denoted seniority and thought of him as an elder relative to whom he should show respect—but he couldn't bring himself to use the term _Your Highness_. The "my prince" appellation worked better for him.

A breeze wafted across them then, and Christian, Prince Ulf and Hulden all looked in the direction from which it came. Their surroundings seemed to brighten, and the prince beamed. "A wind! This fog lifts! Soon, men, we shall reach home soil!" he shouted, and behind them all rose a chorus of ragged cheers.

Hours later they made landfall; when the fog had finally cleared, they had seen the coast at a fairly near distance, and the men had put more effort than ever into their rowing, as the breeze wasn't strong enough to get them to shore as quickly as the prince wanted to go. A crowd waited onshore to greet them all, and a tapestry-draped cart awaited Prince Ulf and Christian. Sitting in the cart was a pretty blonde girl, accompanied by a wizened crone who for some reason looked familiar to Christian. Prince Ulf spotted them immediately. "Come, Johansson," he cried, "and bring yon strange fool with you! He can see to it that our young women stay with us for the return to the royal castle. Gerdalill, sister mine, what possessed you to bring old Rose all the way to _Heroiskjollesstranden?"_

Hulden caught up with Christian and muttered blankly, "Heroic Boat Beach?"

Christian, about to shrug, suddenly spied the remains of the battered wooden skiff that had transported Ormssvärd and his men to this place, and gestured at it. "The boat that the first king made landfall in." He said no more; the place wouldn't be called that for much more than another century, he estimated, once the wooden craft had rotted and all traces of its existence had vanished. "This is the beach where they first set their feet upon our soil. You will walk behind the royal cart and watch these women." He gestured toward the captives who were lining up just behind the cart and then climbed in after Prince Ulf—only to realize that the old crone sitting beside young Princess Gerda was none other than Rose, the Irish captive who had married Thorsten Långsvärd so long ago. Rose glared at him, and he gaped at her, astonished at both her aged appearance and Roarke's temerity in allowing Leslie's participation after all.

"Well, Johansson, you rash idiot," she snapped at him, "I see our princely captain has survived, but I doubt it's any thanks to you. The lot of you are three weeks late to make landfall, and Queen Gerda has been beside herself!"

Christian gritted his teeth, then retorted, "Think you that I have the ability to call down fog to enshroud us so that our return would be delayed? You credit me with far more than you realize, old hag. Hasn't your man any more tooth in him, that he can no longer control you?" The cart jerked into motion, and he leaned forward to hiss into her ear while Prince Ulf and Princess Gerda were talking about the voyage. "Damn it all, Leslie Enstad! I can't believe you're actually here, after all I've said! Are you actively trying to endanger those babies of ours? It's just not safe for you to be here when you're pregnant!"

Rose reared away from him and delivered him a whack across the face that stunned him. "What in hell is this you say?" she squawked at him. "You spout madder nonsense than usual, Johansson! I've forty-eight winters behind me and you think I await an infant? Look at me, you damned fool! I am neither gravid nor hopeful of becoming so, with Långsvärd dead these past ten years. And I should surely not want any child of your loins!" She slapped him again, stunning him even more so that he fell back into the cart, gingerly working his jaw back and forth. "Damned stupid lout," he heard her grumble.

Christian stared at her in disbelief. How could it be anyone but Leslie? He didn't swallow a syllable of her diatribe, and he was incredulous and shocked that she was playing the role to such an extent that she'd actually hit him—twice, yet! He shook his head hard and turned his back on her, confident that he would deal with her later when he had a chance to get her away from other people. And if she actually wasn't pregnant, then what had Roarke done with their unborn twins? A headache began to pound in Christian's skull, and he closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.

"Get up, you damned stupid fool!" screeched Rose eventually, and her foot landed in his calf with a thump that almost knocked him over. "We've arrived at the castle, and you've captives to care for!" He looked up with a blazing glare, still incredulous that Leslie would go to such lengths to hide her true identity, his fury growing. He climbed to his feet and leaned down toward her, trying to intimidate her.

"More of this abuse, Leslie Susan Enstad," he hissed, "and you'll have hell to pay, you can count on that. You're immersing yourself into this role far too deeply."

"You are as insane as I've always said, you sun-baked lack-brain," Rose shot back. "Who is this 'Leslie' person you address me as? I am Rose, your prince's caretaker since his birth, as you well remember! Get out of this wagon and do your job, and you'd best keep your wandering hands and eyes off that delicate little thing from Cathay as well! Our prince has claimed her as his own!"

"Shut up, you old hag," Christian shouted at her, patience exhausted, "before I lift you with those very hands and hurl you out of this cart myself!" He settled for shoving her aside and then taking a flying leap right out of the wagon, trying to deal with his rage and his bewilderment all at once. He wished Roarke would show up; he had several bones to pick with the man.

Benjamin Hulden caught him as he was stalking past the women to take charge of the princess from China. "Uh, sorry, Mr. Johansson, but you're gonna have a tough time with that princess. She's been spitting and kicking and beating everybody who tries to touch her. I think maybe you should just, well, throw a rope around her or something and drag her along after you."

"And where, pray tell, should I find a rope?" Christian demanded, pulling away from him and deliberately going for the Chinese princess. He was so infuriated at Leslie's treatment of him and her insistence in pretending ignorance that he was willing to take on the little wildcat personally. Those who saw him coming scrambled out of his way, all but Catherine, who called out at him to stop, clearly seeing where he was headed.

"You dare not touch the prince's woman, my lord!" she called a little frantically.

"I am in charge of all of you," he returned curtly, "and it is necessary to handle that one with a certain force. Stand back, there!" The women and children who had been faithfully following the cart all the way from the beach, staring at the Chinese princess, gave him extra space to work in, and he waded grimly in and caught the princess' arm as she swung it at him. There'd be no further slapping if he could help it. He bodily lifted the princess off the ground, and she began screaming, the first time he'd heard her voice. She kicked, spat, struggled and shrieked, and Christian supposed she was railing at him in some ancient form of Chinese. Since he didn't understand the language, he simply toted her along, stolidly enduring the physical and verbal abuse and constantly spitting her incredibly long hair out of his mouth every time the wind blew it in his face.

"Ah, my woman! Take her to the second story and put her in the first empty room you find, Johansson," Prince Ulf shouted cheerfully. "I shall pay her a visit at a later hour, when I have settled all accounts with my kingly brother."

"As you will, my prince," Christian replied and started for what he recognized as the great entry. But he nearly dropped the princess in his shock. He knew the castle had been built to its current proportions only over several centuries, but it was still startling to see how little of it was here now. There were only two stories rather than three, and as far as he could ascertain, the north and south wings each held no more than perhaps a dozen rooms altogether. He headed for the entrance, wondering what else he would see, and on his way gave the princess several sharp shakes. "Be silent!" he barked at her. She clearly understood him no more than he did her, for she continued screaming and kicking.

Inside, the great entry looked very much as Christian remembered it, though the balconies of the second floor were both absent. Otherwise, the structure soared to its three-story height, and near the ceiling at the back end was the little round ventilation window Christian remembered having seen open only once in his life. The entrance to what would eventually be the rear courtyards was in place, and the corridor arches were just as he knew them. It was a strange feeling.

"Who in hell is that you tote in here, Rolf Johansson?" a feminine voice demanded in amazement, and Christian stopped in the middle of the entry, blinking at his multiple-great-grandmother Gerda. He managed a bow of sorts, clutching the princess as he was.

"I believe, Your Majesty, that Prince Ulf has decided on the woman he wants to wife," he said with careful deference, "and this is she." Only to kings and queens was Christian accustomed to showing deference, since they were the only royalty to outrank him.

"But what a strange young woman! I have never seen hair as black or skin as golden, and her eyes are…strange." Queen Gerda approached gingerly, trying to get a good look at the shrieking young woman Christian held. "Can no one quiet her?"

"I doubt anyone who tried would meet with success," said Christian dryly, and the queen chuckled.

"It would seem so. Very well, Johansson, take her to a south-wing room," she said, and Christian sketched her another bow and carted the Chinese woman off with him. It was a relief when he could put her down, but the moment he did she rushed him, throwing herself at him and beating savagely with hard little fists.

"_Herregud,_ you little brat!" Christian exploded, fed up. "You're here to stay, if history is correct about my ancestor's capture of you, so you may as well resign yourself to it!"

The sound of his voice froze her, to his surprise, and the princess stared up at him, her dark almond eyes as wide as they could go. Her body trembled from head to toe, whether from adrenaline or hunger, Christian wasn't sure. Their gazes locked, and to his horror, he felt that strong attraction again. He stepped toward her, unable somehow to stop himself; she backed away, fear and anger blazing to life in her eyes. He extended his hands at her, shaking his head and speaking slowly and soothingly. "You're in good hands, princess, so you have nothing to fear. I have no intention of hurting you. Don't be afraid…"

The princess backed into the wall, glanced wildly around the empty room, and spied a few pebbles on the floor at her feet. She snatched one up and hurled it at him, giving him barely enough time to dodge aside. He cursed incredulously and threw his hands in the air. "I give up! Suit yourself, you little hellion." He slammed the heavy wooden door on her and barred it to keep her inside, then removed himself from the vicinity, convinced it was best that he get himself as far away from her as he could. He couldn't understand the powerful draw she had on him, and it scared him. He'd reacted like that to only one other woman in all his days—Leslie—and he wondered dismally if this was supposed to be some sort of moral test. There was no reason he should ever be tempted by any other woman…was there? Was this how it began for married men who had affairs? Did they feel the kind of pull to some stranger that they'd had for their wives in the beginning?

Christian cursed softly to himself. _I've got to stay away from her. If I don't keep strict control over myself, I might find myself too weak to resist, and then I could never live with my conscience for betraying Leslie. Let that silly prince have her…if she'll let him get within a kilometer of her._ He concentrated on putting distance between them, and was actually thankful when his stomach suddenly rumbled with hunger and he could focus on something else.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- January 17, 2004

Benjamin Hulden watched Rolf Johansson heft the screaming Chinese princess and cart her away, and wondered how the big Viking so easily withstood her kicks and punches. He shook his head, then had a thought: Prince Ulf wanted the woman, but since she seemed to fight everyone she saw, there would be problems. Perhaps _she_ had been the instrument of his death? He decided it might be a good idea to keep watch on the princess as well. He gestured vaguely at the other women, who fell in behind him, too tired and hungry to resist any longer. One drew up alongside him and matched her pace to his; he looked at her and recognized the woman with long dark hair who had told them about the princess. "Can I do something for you, miss?" he asked.

She was gazing after the retreating Viking and the Chinese, whose outraged cries they could still hear at a distance. "I fear Johansson means to go after the princess," she said, shaking her head. "Pray the prince does not learn of this. He may lose his head."

Rose, the old hag whose altercations with Johansson Hulden had watched with great amusement and curiosity, was hobbling ahead of them. She peered over her shoulder and said, "Would that he did! Our young prince has known Johansson's dubious friendship since he was able to walk and speak, but Johansson has always been a fool. Even Queen Gerda is fond of the lout, but I have always been suspicious of him. And lo, the moment he sees me he accuses me of being someone I am not, and suggests that I am gravid!" She spat into the weeds and stumped along ahead of them, while Hulden and the dark-haired girl looked at each other in perplexity.

"Maybe _she's_ the fruitcake," Hulden muttered.

"The what? What is a fruitcake?"

"A crazy person. A lunatic. I think she's a few shingles short of a roof. Come to think of it, that Chinese princess might be the same way, the way she's carrying on." He gave the girl a curious look. "What's your name?"

"Catherine," she replied, staring after Johansson and his burden. "I do fear for Rolf Johansson, no matter the addled prating of the old crone before us. The princess is marked for our prince. He laid claim on her from the moment he brought her aboard the longboat. I must lay claim on Rolf before the prince realizes the attraction he has to the princess!" Catherine seized Hulden's arm. "You must help me!"

Hulden studied her; she stared up at him with a frantic plea in her eyes, and out of nowhere he wished he were the one Catherine were interested in. "I don't think," he said carefully, "that Johansson is too interested in any woman."

"Do you see nothing?" demanded Catherine. "I tell you, he wants the princess! I make no illusion that she will have even the prince, to say nothing of Johansson, but if the prince believes Johansson has an eye on her, he will surely execute him. It will matter not if they have been friends since infancy, as that old hag claims. It is the way of royalty to take what they want and to do all they can to get it."

Hulden sighed. He would have to stick by Johansson anyway, if he were ever to solve the mystery of Prince Ulf's death. If the princess, or the old hag, were involved, he would be able to keep an eye on everyone and figure out what had happened once and for all. "Okay, Catherine, you've got yourself a partner," he said. "And you know, I think you're right…that princess is gonna stir up some bad blood between the prince and his buddy."

‡ ‡ ‡

Christian was still in charge of caring for the women, which meant that he had to put them in empty rooms in the castle's south wing and then feed them after the rest of the company had eaten. Hulden offered to help carry food, and Christian agreed.

"You know, Rolf," Hulden said casually, "I think Catherine likes you."

Christian spared him a distracted glance. "I've no interest. I already have…" He stopped again and glared at him. "Think you I need a woman so badly?"

"Seems like it to me. You keep giving the Chinese girl the hairy eyeball," said Hulden.

Christian stared at him; he didn't have to feign complete befuddlement at the slang phrase. "Are you mad? What is a 'hairy eyeball'?"

Hulden cleared his throat, and Christian decided this must be a nervous habit he had. "I mean, you can't quite keep your eyes off her," he said a little lamely. "You don't actually think she'd give you the time of day, especially after your pal the prince claimed her."

"I've no interest," Christian repeated shortly.

"Good," said Hulden, sounding sly, "then you won't object if I take her her supper."

Christian stopped dead in the corridor and favored Hulden with a long frigid stare that made the other man begin to fidget. At last Christian said, slowly and ominously, "I might begin to believe that you yourself harbored an interest in that little hellcat, did I not know that you fear our prince and his wrath should he get word of it."

"You're trying to convince yourself that you don't really want the princess," Hulden persisted despite his obviously nervous mien, "but you do. There's no hiding it, Rolf. You know perfectly well the prince is gonna win."

"Oh, do cast your affection toward her," offered a voice from the nearby stairwell. It was old Rose, bearing a pitcher and displaying three or four dingy yellow teeth in a jack-o'lantern grin. "I should like nothing better than to see you banished for all time, Johansson, or better yet, beheaded."

Christian piled his stack of wooden trays atop the ones the startled Hulden already carried and ordered, "You will deliver the rest of the meals. Get you gone from my sight." He then turned to Rose and grabbed her arm, dragging her down the steps and into the stairwell, without waiting to see whether Hulden did as told. Rose squawked and tried to pull her arm free, but she was no match at all for Christian.

When they had some measure of privacy, he yanked the pitcher out of her hand and flung it against the wall; the wooden vessel hit with a loud _clonk_ and its contents splashed over the stonework. "I've had enough, Leslie," he snapped at her. "Stop your damned playacting, and tell me why you insist on torturing me this way! Is this some sort of retaliation for my insisting that Mr. Roarke keep you out of this time trip?"

"You idiot!" Rose screeched. "What goes through your addled head, and why think you I am someone named Leslie? You speak nonsense! You chirp like a bird, Johansson, spouting madness! If you indeed seek this Leslie, then seek elsewhere and cease your accusations of me!" She snatched the pitcher off the floor and met Christian's glare with one of her own. "Your favor with our prince has gone to your head, you pickled-brained brute!" And she swung the pitcher at him, clearly with full intentions of using it to break his arm. He danced out of the way barely in time, but caught her arm and freed the pitcher from her hand again, holding it high out of her reach. "Give me that!" she shrilled.

"I'll not give you back a lethal weapon!" Christian yelled. "You'll merely try to kill me again, you miserable old bat! Since you persist in continuing the charade, then I'll play along with it—but so help me, when we return tomorrow evening, I'll have words with you that I never in my days thought I'd say to you. You're fortunate I still have hopes of reconciling!"

Rose clocked him in the stomach with a bony fist, and he dropped the pitcher in agony, doubling over. "That might teach you to respect your elders, you flea-ridden windbag, but I hold out little hope for you in light of all I have seen of you through your misbegotten life." She tottered down the stairs, moving at surprising speed for someone who hobbled, muttering as she went. "Bedbug-infested lout! Great bellowing bully! Strutting rooster!…" Christian was relieved when her voice faded from his hearing. He was more bewildered than ever, and wished desperately that he could have a talk with Roarke.

Hours later, his headache subsided at last and the aches in his jaw, stomach and calf finally gone, he lay restless, agitated, torn. Something strange had gotten into Leslie, and he couldn't stop thinking of that Chinese princess. Christian finally rose from his pallet on the floor in the room that Prince Ulf occupied and slipped out the door, feeling magnetized, his instincts in agony. Five times he halted himself and turned back, only to press on again. _It's only to see to her well-being, _he thought desperately._ I'm charged with the care of all those women, and that includes the princess, doesn't it? I have to make sure Hulden fed her, after all._ His own words failed to convince him, and once more he stopped and made to go back, then continued forward again when his gut churned in protest. Leslie wouldn't forgive him if she knew…but then again, she actually did, to some extent. Hadn't she, in her old-hag disguise, said she hoped Prince Ulf would behead him for his attraction to the princess? _Her abuse is payback, isn't it? But she would be hurt, I'd have thought, angry and crying, instead of screaming invective and calling me every strange name on earth and trying to punch me senseless. Pregnancy has really gotten to her…or else she's far angrier than I thought that I asked Mr. Roarke to forbid her any further trips through time. Fate save me, I can't understand my own wife anymore!_ Christian groaned softly and raked his hand through the coarse blond hair he still wasn't used to having, and blinked when he realized he was standing in front of the door to the room where he'd ensconced the princess.

He couldn't see anything through the square hole in the door, so he stealthily unbarred it and eased it open, poking his head in and looking around. The stone room, empty except for a pallet much like his own and a chamber pot, was silent, but he could see a still, huddled figure on the pallet, covered as much in her knee-length hair as in her torn robes.

Breathing deeply, Christian stole to her side and knelt there, gazing at the exotic Asian features. Something inside him went light with wonder, in exactly the same way it had always done with Leslie, and that incited panic in him. He gasped softly, rocketed back into a standing position and made for the door. _I've lost my mind,_ he thought frantically. He couldn't believe he was doing this. Where in hell was his father-in-law? Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get out of this maddening fantasy and go back to Leslie, to hold her and assure her over and over that he loved her.

Then someone seized his arm and pulled him back inside, closing the door. Shocked, Christian confronted the princess; he'd never even heard her cross the floor. She gazed up at him, without smiling, but without her usual temper. He stared helplessly back, wishing he knew the reason for his attraction to her. "I wish," he said softly and fervently, "that you'd begin to scream and throw things at me. It would make this decision so much easier. I don't think I know my wife anymore, and I love her more than I dreamed possible, but you…I should be shot for what I'm feeling around you!" He moved a few steps back, trying to put enough distance between them to regain his senses, hoping to circle back around to the door and get himself out of there.

But the princess followed him, pinning him with those fathomless eyes. She never said a word, just looked at him, trapping him in her stare. He didn't realize she was carefully maneuvering him, backing him off in a completely different direction from the one he'd intended to go in, till he hit the wall and was jolted out of the spell enough to look around. He swallowed loudly: they stood near her pallet, and she was closing the remaining distance between them, a slow step at a time. "Please don't," Christian begged frantically, guilt and panic churning in him. "Fate take me, I can't!" Desperately he dodged around her, leaped for the door and wrenched it open, darted through and yanked it closed, dropping the bar back in place just before the pursuing princess would have managed to get it open again.

Christian stood there in what he would come to know as the west corridor in the south wing of the castle where he would grow up centuries from now, mesmerized by her face framed in the door's square window opening. In the meager light from torches mounted in wall sconces, he could see tears glistening in her eyes. Cautiously he edged closer, hoping to give a little comfort. "Don't cry," he urged gently. "The prince will take good care of you…" He broke off, remembering abruptly that the prince wasn't long for this world, and closed his eyes for a moment.

They flew open again when he felt a small hand settle delicately on his face. He knew he should run like hell, but he couldn't have moved if his life had hinged on it. She had reached through the window hole and was tentatively exploring his cheek. She might as well have nailed his feet to the floor. Christian told himself repeatedly to move, but his body refused to obey him. Her hand slid softly across his face, her finger ventured forth and traced his lower lip, and his skin tingled under her touch. Their eyes were locked…

Then, somewhere in the great entry, something fell with a clang that echoed eerily off the stone walls and ceiling, reverberating into the corridors. Christian reacted as if poked by a cattle prod. Hissing a curse, he bolted away, out of the princess' reach, and fled, his mind racing, his stomach churning and his conscience giving him merry hell.

‡ ‡ ‡

Benjamin Hulden lay on his stomach on a rude pallet in the enormous three-story stone entry hall, unable to sleep for the snoring that vibrated the air around him. Prince Ulf had thrown a raucous party here, to the great disapproval of Queen Gerda, King Thorsten, and that old harridan Rose, but to the shouted delight of everyone else in the castle. That meant all the Vikings who'd accompanied the prince on his voyage (though not, Hulden had noticed, the women they'd brought back), a decidedly pensive Rolf Johansson, and Hulden himself. Some primitive but potent alcoholic beverage had been passed around in great volume, and there had been singing and jokes and tall tales and much loud laughter. Deep in the night, Hulden could still smell the acrid odor of spilled liquor, mixed with that of vomit, and had been trying for some time to find a position to sleep in where the odor was a little less pervasive.

He was wondering whether Catherine's assertions that Johansson had an eye for the Chinese princess really had any merit, and what his own chances were of catching her eye when it was on Johansson, and what the prince might do to the lot of them if he got wind of all this. He had the feeling that Catherine was right; he had taken in Johansson's initial reaction to the princess back in the hold of the longship, and something had happened to the guy. There was no question in his mind. Catherine had seen it too, since she'd set him straight on who had dibs. But when an attraction took root, there was usually no stopping it—sometimes not even the threat of death. Was Johansson willing to risk death to have the princess for himself? Would he go so far as to kill the prince for her?

Hulden got to his feet and picked his way around the snoring bodies scattered across the soiled stone floor, taking great care to keep from stepping on either sleeping men or puddles of various substances, some annoying, some revolting. It took him almost fifteen minutes to get as far as the long, roughly carved wooden table where there were still a few dented iron steins, some overturned, some upright, some lying in puddles, some still containing alcohol. A wooden pitcher with a crack in it sat smack in the middle of the table, and Hulden examined it, grinning to see that it was almost full of water. He looked over steins till he found an empty one that wasn't lying in a puddle of liquor, used a little of the water to rinse out the inside, poured it out under the table, and half filled it with water. With relief he tipped it back, happily slaking his thirst.

"You appear to be unable to sleep, Mr. Hulden," observed a quiet baritone. Despite the softness of the voice, Hulden was caught very much by surprise and nearly choked on a mouthful of water. He gulped loudly and tried to muffle his coughing behind his hand; fortunately, he recovered in a moment or so and smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry about that," he offered. "I just didn't expect you to show up at this hour."

Roarke chuckled. "My apologies. However, I thought you might have a dilemma."

"I do," Hulden admitted. "I still can't figure out what would kill the prince…but I do have a possible scenario." He described his ideas to Roarke in a low, excited voice, concluding, "Just seems to me that this princess from China is the linchpin of all this. Johansson can't hide his attraction to her, and if Catherine and I have both noticed, it's a cinch the prince'll see it too." He frowned. "Problem is, that sounds as if there's a bigger chance of Johansson getting killed than the prince."

"Indeed," said Roarke. "However, I assume you are aware that there are many possibilities inherent in such a situation. Mr. Johansson may bring about the prince's death before being killed himself; or the princess may instigate it; or it may even be someone else. My only advice is that you continue to observe all you can."

"I kept thinking that old bag Rose might be involved," Hulden mused, "because she and Johansson seem to hate each other. She's always picking on the poor guy, calling him all kinds of names, kicking and punching him, and denigrating him in front of anyone who happens to be in the vicinity. It's a wonder he hasn't snapped her in half by now, especially since she could very easily tattle on him to the prince, and the prince might get mad enough to do Johansson in." He scowled. "But that still doesn't give me any clue as to how Prince Ulf gets killed. I guess Rose could tell on him, but in the end she wouldn't be responsible for the death. So it goes back to either Johansson or the princess."

Roarke smiled. "I think you have narrowed it down as much as you possibly can at this point in your fantasy, Mr. Hulden," he said. "Try to put it out of your mind and get some rest. You'll need it if you are to be alert for any other indications. And I remind you that you must allow events to take their natural course, no matter what your instincts tell you. Don't try to interfere, even to save a life. You are participating in history, but whatever happened here is written in stone and can never be changed." He turned as if to leave, then paused and regarded Hulden thoughtfully. "You might wish to volunteer for maintenance tomorrow."

Hulden peered at Roarke's cryptic smile and reached up to scratch his head, forgetting he still held the iron stein. The mug fell out of his hand and hit the floor with a loud clang, and Hulden scrambled to grab it before it made any further noise. He heard a number of snores break in the middle and then resume, with some grunts mixed in, and rolled his eyes to himself before straightening up. "Whaddaya mean by—hey, Mr. Roarke, where are you?" Roarke had disappeared, as if he had never been there. Hulden shook his head, carefully replaced the stein on the table, and retreated to his pallet.

Halfway there he thought he heard something, and turned to see a figure crossing the floor on his toes. The movement made the figure stop, and the two stared at each other; then Hulden realized it was Rolf Johansson. "You okay?" he whispered.

"I am well. Leave me in peace and resume your slumber," Johansson ordered low, and stalked quietly across to one of the corridor archways, disappearing.

Hulden was willing to bet Johansson was anything but well. The only reason he'd have to go to the other side of the castle was to see that Chinese princess. "You better look out tomorrow, Rolf," he mumbled and made his way back to his pallet, where he settled down and stared up at the ceiling. His last thought before finally dozing off was a wish that he knew where the castle servants slept, so that he could go rouse them and get them down here to clean up the liquor and vomit whose odors still lingered in his crowded corner of the great entry.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- January 18, 2004

"Get up, you malingerer," a familiar voice barked into Hulden's ear, and he sat up straight, nearly knocking old Rose over.

"Look, lady, I get up at four o'clock every single morning to fish," Hulden retorted, annoyed. "I've earned the right to sleep in. Get lost."

Rose glared at him. "All must do their share here, and you are among that number. Get your scrawny, worthless rump away from your bed! You have already missed fast-break, and well-deserved it is too."

Hulden snorted and remarked, "I can see why Johansson thinks you're such a crone. You're a worse nag than a seventy-year-old swaybacked mare. What're you standing there for? Get outta my way so I can get up, unless that's too much trouble for you."

Rose made to deliver a kick, but Hulden caught her foot, knocking the old woman off balance. She landed rather hard on the stone floor and grunted in surprise. "Keep your bony old feet to yourself, Witchiepoo," Hulden suggested and got up, stepping over her. Behind him she started shouting insults, but he ignored her.

The great entry was deserted, and he wondered what had happened to everybody, particularly Rolf Johansson. About two-thirds of the way down the great entry, King Thorsten—Prince Ulf's older brother—appeared from the doorway at the far end and paused in surprise at sight of Hulden, who quickly bowed low. "What do you here, man?" Thorsten wanted to know. "You slept far later than those who felt the effects of last night's mead, yet I do not recall your having touched a drop."

"I didn't, Your Majesty," Hulden said. "I'm a teetotaler."

Thorsten squinted at him, then shook his head dismissively. "Be you with the group that arrived with my brother yesterday?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Hulden said, and then remembered what Roarke had told him the night before about volunteering for maintenance. "I'd like to go out to His Highness' ship and help make repairs, if I might."

"A noble pastime and sorely needed," Thorsten said. "You have leave to go. However, before you depart, I wish to see this cargo of beauties my brother claims to have brought to our shores. Please have them brought to me, and then you may go."

"Right away, Your Majesty," Hulden agreed and headed for the other side of the great entry, wondering if Thorsten's intent was to choose one of the women for himself. Was he even married? Nobody, including Prince Christian, had mentioned whether Thorsten had been married by now or was still single. If he had no queen, it was altogether possible that he would be on the lookout, and there was a chance that he might set eyes on the Chinese princess and announce that she was his choice. There would be bad blood between Thorsten and Ulf, and…

Hulden snorted again. _Right, pal…fratricide. But no one ever ruled it out, right?_ He was beginning to give himself a headache with all these crazy theories, but he was so eager to solve the mystery that he couldn't seem to help himself. His mind was mostly elsewhere as he lifted bars on doors and told the women to gather in the great entry to meet the king. He let out the Chinese princess last, hopping aside the moment he threw the door open so as to avoid being the target of her wrath. But she simply stalked out in a haughty silence and didn't bother even to look at him. He watched her go, shrugged, and sank back into his whirling thoughts. Preoccupied, he meandered at leisure back to the first floor and then wandered toward the door, letting himself out without noticing that it stood ajar.

‡ ‡ ‡

Prince Ulf had chosen Christian and four others to help him make repairs on his longship, and all morning long Christian had been patching leaks in the hull from inside the cargo hold. The work was wearing him out far more quickly than he'd expected, and he readily admitted that doing computer work certainly didn't prepare him for plugging up gaps between boards on a twelfth-century boat. But it kept him from thinking too much, and more importantly, it kept him away from that princess. When Prince Ulf had sent the other four men back ashore, he'd offered to let Christian take a break; but Christian had refused, preferring to remain here where he was alone and unmolested.

It had surprised him when his ancestor had overlooked Hulden snoozing in the corner; while eating breakfast Christian had kept a surreptitious eye on the Canadian, who slept right through the servants' cleanup detail. He'd been wondering periodically what Hulden had seen the night before when he'd caught Christian crossing the great entry. _He was asleep when I went through the first time, I think, but what woke him, I wonder? Did he have any idea that I was foolish enough to indulge my urge to see that princess? _ Christian squeezed his eyes shut and forced his thoughts to other avenues. He called up an image of Leslie, the way she had looked two days ago on their anniversary when he'd faced her over a candlelight dinner at the pond restaurant, and hoped her ridiculous turn as that old hag Rose didn't permanently alter her personality somehow. He still couldn't understand what had gotten into her. She seemed to have taken a particular glee in trying to beat him into next week, and she utterly refused to own up to her real identity. Was it at Roarke's behest? Was it Leslie's own idea? And if she'd come up with it herself, why was she doing it? He shook his head in frustration, promising himself that he was going to give her the worst third degree she'd ever faced in her life when this fantasy was over and they were safely back in the twenty-first century. Mostly, he wanted to know what he had done to deserve such treatment.

"Ho, Rolf! Have you not yet completed repairs in that dungeon?" he heard Prince Ulf call cheerfully from above.

Christian looked around and realized he had managed to work his way from bow to stern. "It appears I have, my prince," he called back, going to the ladder and peering up at the prince, whose face was framed in the hatch. "Have you further tasks for me?"

"That I do," Ulf said. "Get you up from below, my friend, and I shall show you."

Several minutes later Christian was replacing round-headed iron rivets that held the wooden strakes in place, pounding them through the wood and securing them with little iron plates, in spots where they had somehow popped loose and vanished. There were only a few missing, as far as the prince had ascertained, and Christian was trying to make the work last as long as he could. It seemed safe here on the longship, a refuge from the princess, the intrigue, the certain knowledge that his ancestor was going to die and he very likely was going to be witness to it.

He had just replaced the third rivet, with four more to go, when the prince yelled, "Ho, Rolf! I go for the midday meal. Will you have something?"

Christian's appetite had been nonexistent since last night's ridiculous party; he had barely choked down three bites of breakfast that morning. "No, my prince, I find my gut shudders at mention of food," he said with a halfhearted smile.

"Too much good mead, my friend," Prince Ulf said, laughing. "Next time you should be more careful! I shall return anon. Have a care that none of the monsters of the depths come after you, alone as you are there." Laughing merrily, he disembarked, leaving Christian shaking his head to himself. _I can't wait to go home,_ he thought.

Knocking in the last rivet, he let the chilly sea breeze cut the heat from a surprisingly intense sun, and even managed a smile at the rapid rocking of the longship in the choppy water. He fit the small iron square onto the end of the rivet and completed pounding it into place, and was about to drop the crude mallet he'd been using when a shadow fell over him. He straightened up, thinking it was the prince—but in fact it was the Chinese princess. She stood mere steps away from him, looking at him without expression, her long, long blue-black hair flying in the stiff breeze like a banner.

Christian slowly pulled himself to his full six-feet-three, dread filling him as fast as the anticipation did. He wanted to touch her and to run away from her all at once. Finally he managed to choke out, "What are you doing here?"

She smiled, apparently at the sound of his voice, and he went weak at the sight; she was simply breathtaking. The mallet fell unnoticed from his limp hand, and his lips parted; his breathing grew a little shallower, a little more rapid. The princess' black eyes seemed to brighten and grow warm; her smile became soft and seductive, and she drifted toward him, with a certain intent that struck terror into Christian. "Please," he said, but the word fell on deaf ears. He took a step back, stumbled and fell to his knees.

The princess pounced, almost literally. She closed the negligible distance between them and caught his head between her hands, twining her fingers into the coarse blond hair that had replaced his own, and kissed him with very clear intent.

The effect on poor Christian was devastating. _Leslie,_ he thought hazily, _my Leslie…_ He reached up and clutched at the princess' tattered robes, confused into thinking it really was Leslie, gathering the woman's slight form against him and forcing her to her own knees so that he dominated their kiss. She wouldn't have it: she let him pull her down, but she kept control of their kiss, and the maelstrom of desire, confusion and fear that was consuming Christian overwhelmed him. His mind blanked and he let her have her way.

The boat rocked even more underneath them and Prince Ulf's voice shouted, "Ho! I return! And so, my friend, what…" He cut himself off, and Christian, galvanized back into reality, threw the princess back from him and struggled to his feet. The prince was gaping at them as though he couldn't believe what he saw. The princess rose as well and clutched at Christian's arm, and Prince Ulf bellowed, "I am betrayed…by my lifelong friend!"

"No, it's not so," Christian shouted desperately, frantically shaking the princess' hand off his arm. "Damn it, woman, leave me alone! I have said it again and again, I have no—"

"_You lie!!"_ Prince Ulf roared and dropped everything he held, leaping at a completely unprepared Christian, who was still reeling from the princess' advances. "My entire life have I trusted you with all my confidences, all my hopes and fears, and this is my reward! For this you die, Rolf Johansson!" Prince Ulf was a good bit shorter than Christian, but he was driven by a classic Viking-berserker's rage, and Christian was still in shock from what had just happened and an avalanche of guilt and self-loathing for having betrayed Leslie in this manner. So he offered no resistance when the prince rushed him, bulldozing him between rowers' benches and right over the side into the frigid North Sea.

When Christian hit the surface, he instinctively gasped, half filling his lungs with icy saltwater that shocked him anew. He fought to get back to the surface, but he was caught in a strong undertow and couldn't tell up from down. He seemed to be tumbling in the current, being carried off to parts unknown. Once, just briefly, his head broke the surface and he tried to suck in oxygen, but instead he choked on the brine he had inhaled before sliding back under again. His heavy furs were waterlogged and weighing him down, and he was mad for air, but still couldn't find the surface.

_Breathe, for fate's sake, breathe…let me breathe…give me the chance to make it up to Leslie! Oh God, my wife…my children! I'll never see the twins come into the world! I'll never see Leslie again…my Leslie Rose…_ Christian's thoughts slowed, his brain fogged up and he relaxed. _Someday she might understand, perhaps forgive me._ _I love you, Leslie, I love you, forever, even beyond this, my fate. Always wondered how I was going to die…_ He closed his eyes, gave himself up, and the world slipped away from him.

‡ ‡ ‡

By the time Benjamin Hulden reached his destination, he was footsore and wondering how on earth these people had so easily walked miles and miles like this. Didn't anyone in early Lilla Jordsö have horses, other than royalty? He stopped to shake some rocks out of his worn leather shoe, and at that point he heard someone hail him. "Ho, wait there!" Hopping on one foot, he got himself turned around enough to see that it was Catherine.

"How'd you get away from the king?" he asked.

Catherine explained as she approached, "He inspected each of us in turn. I was one of the first few, and I met with his approval, but he did not desire me as his queen. He merely told me I shall make someone a good wife and dismissed me." She drew up beside him and frowned pensively, peering across a low, flat expanse of grass broken only by one very large elm, at Prince Ulf's longship bobbing energetically on a sea tipped with whitecaps. "Who is that aboard the prince's ship?"

Hulden glanced up at the longship and came out of his thoughts with a rude jolt. Prince Ulf was nowhere to be seen, but there stood Rolf Johansson, gawking at none other than the Chinese princess. Hulden cursed himself for losing himself in his daydreams and failing to notice that she hadn't been with the group of women presenting themselves to the king. _There's gonna be a fight to the death,_ he thought, staring at the two on the longship's deck, _and _that's_ how the prince gets killed. That is, if he's even around. Come to think of it, where is he?_ Hulden looked around but couldn't see the prince anywhere; then he was distracted when he heard Johansson exclaim, "What are you doing here?" They were close enough to the ship to see the princess smile at him. It was plain that Johansson was so mesmerized with fright and fascination that he couldn't see anything else.

While Hulden and Catherine watched, Johansson tried to back away, but his leg buckled under him and he dropped to the deck on both knees. The princess instantly took advantage and all but attacked the tall blond Viking, kissing him to within an inch of his life. Johansson didn't put up much of a fight, from what Hulden could see; he did yank the woman down to his level, but she was all over him, and he stopped resisting her altogether after another few seconds. Hulden looked around for the prince again—and this time he saw him, carrying a basket of something, looking quite pleased with himself. Hulden yanked Catherine with him behind the trunk of the large elm, barely avoiding stepping on what appeared to be a crudely carved tombstone set in the ground, and both watched the unfolding scene with huge eyes.

Prince Ulf announced his presence, then halted in the middle of the sentence when he saw Johansson and the princess. The big Viking gave the woman a hefty shove away from him and tried to protest, but the prince was having none of it. The fight Hulden expected to see turned out to be entirely one-sided, as the prince rushed his friend and heaved him overboard. Hulden breathed an astonished oath and waited for Johansson to resurface and join the fray, but he never came back up. Catherine gasped and began to tremble.

The princess screamed incoherently and threw herself at the prince, fists flying. Prince Ulf seemed quite stunned by what he had done and let the Chinese pummel him relentlessly, standing there staring over the port side of his boat and looking blindsided. The princess delivered one final ringing smack to Ulf's face that made Hulden wince; then she crumpled to the deck and wailed in despair. _I'll be damned,_ Hulden thought, _she really must have had a thing for Johansson. And I thought she hated him…she attacked him on the ship, after all. I guess that just goes to show how weird love can be!_

Prince Ulf stared desperately over the empty sea and shouted Johansson's name a few times; when there was no response, he moaned in agony and cried, "I've killed my friend over a mere woman! I can never forgive myself!" This earned him another attack from the princess, and he shoved her away so that she stumbled and collapsed to the deck. "You will be the instrument of two deaths, woman, and it shall haunt you for all your days!" So saying, he leaped over the side of his own ship in Johansson's wake and vanished as completely as the other man had. Hulden stared out to sea, thought he caught sight of the prince's head breaking the surface just once…and then he was gone forever.

He was still trying to take all this in when he saw the princess climb unsteadily to her feet, sobbing hysterically, and reel to the port side, then simply fall overboard. This time Hulden broke into a desperate sprint and clambered onto the ship himself, but the princess too had disappeared.

Catherine reached his side again and touched his arm. "They are gone, all of them. You can do nothing to help now." She bit her lip hard and searched the empty ocean as if she hoped to see their heads pop up out of the waves. "I have never seen so entangled a web, nor could I have ever imagined such. The prince wanted the princess, as did Johansson. The princess wanted no one, then she wanted Johansson. I wanted Johansson…"

_And I wanted you,_ Hulden thought bleakly. He stared over the side for some fifteen minutes, trying to compose himself, and then realized the royal family must be told. And, since he and Catherine were the only living witnesses to what had happened, they'd have to do the telling_. This is one hell of a fantasy,_ he thought. _Emphasis on the "hell". Never figured ancient history would throw me for such a loop. Who ever thinks they're gonna witness historical suicides?_ He gently took Catherine's hand and disembarked from the longship with her to start the lengthy trek back to the castle. They trudged listlessly, with Hulden half hoping the walk would take so long that Roarke would appear and end his fantasy before they made it back and had to break the news to Queen Gerda, King Thorsten, and the two young princesses, Rosa and Gerda. But he had no such luck, of course, and more than an hour later he and Catherine gave each other mutually frightened looks before he reached out to push open the door that would let them into the royal castle's great entry.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- January 18, 2004

"Christian, are you all right? Wake up…you're safe." The voice came to him as if from the other end of a tunnel. _What do you know…I guess there really is an afterlife,_ Christian thought dreamily, and then felt someone shaking him. "Christian!"

Full awareness came back to him and he lifted his head. He was lying on the floor of the time-travel room, wearing cold and clammy furs and leather, and there was Roarke, kneeling beside him. Christian peered up at him and protested inanely, "But I drowned."

"Not quite, my dear son-in-law," Roarke said with a smile, "but unfortunately, very close. I am afraid my other guests kept me longer than I expected, and I pulled you out of Mr. Hulden's fantasy nearly too late. I am deeply, deeply sorry, Christian. Are you all right? How do you feel?"

Christian let his head drop back to the floor and took three long, deep breaths, one after another. Then he focused on Roarke and smiled. "I think it will be a very long time before I take breathing for granted again, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke chuckled. "Understandable. Please accept my apologies, Christian…"

Christian sat up and shook his head, protesting, "No…you said the other guests kept you too long? I'll put the blame on them rather than on you. After all, I know what Leslie would probably do if it truly were negligence on your part." He swallowed hard, abruptly reminded, and asked, "Is she here? I wanted to talk to her."

"She's on an errand right now," said Roarke, "but don't worry, she will be back soon. Meantime, why don't you go upstairs and change your clothing, and perhaps have a bit of a rest. You've been through an ordeal I never intended you to endure." He arose, and Christian climbed to his feet and followed him into the study, gratefully accepting his own clothing and retreating upstairs, where he showered, dressed and then went to the TV room with the intent of reading for a while. But he ended up stretching out on the futon and napping, missing the rest of the afternoon.

By the time he woke up it was nearly suppertime. He had just come out of a dream that had been populated solely by the Chinese princess, so that when he ventured downstairs it was with a renewed sense of guilt over his inexplicable attraction to her. He almost turned around and went back when he saw Leslie at the table, but she smiled at him, and he couldn't resist going over and gently stroking her hair once as he passed her to sit down.

"What are we going to do with Mr. Hulden?" Leslie inquired during the meal.

"It will be time to bring him back once dinner is over," Roarke told her. "Did you have the chance to check on Miss Domwick before you came here?"

Leslie nodded. "She said she'd never thought her fantasy would end the way it did, and that it's probably going to haunt her for years. She had me in her bungalow for almost an hour, talking about it. I think she needed to get it out of her system."

"I can understand that," Christian mumbled.

"You can? Did something happen that you need to talk about, my love?" Leslie asked, turning to him and squeezing his hand.

He glanced at her but couldn't keep his gaze on hers; his guilt made up such a lump in his stomach that he was surprised he was eating at all. "Perhaps later," he said quietly. She looked at him with curiosity, tinged with a touch of worry, and nodded acquiescence; but he kept catching her eyeing him in concern for the rest of the meal.

But he couldn't bring himself to go home that evening; in fact he surprised Leslie by asking, "Do you suppose your father would be upset if I stayed here, with you?"

"I don't see why he would be," Leslie said. "Christian, my love, are you sure you're all right? You've been so quiet all evening."

He shrugged. "I just…saw some things in your guest's fantasy that disturbed me, that's all. Isn't it time to bring him back, then?"

"Father's gone after him," said Leslie. She absently rubbed the lump in her lower abdomen while watching her husband. "I guess you'll want to stay and hear what he has to say about how your ancestor died."

"Yes, that would be…" Christian murmured, letting the sentence trail off. _Had_ Prince Ulf died, after all? He'd wondered, while showering, what might have befallen him, whether the princess might have— "Damn," he whispered, savagely cutting the thought off.

Leslie crossed the room from her father's desk to where Christian stood in front of the French shutters, staring into the gathering dusk, and came to stand in front of him, sliding her arms around him. "Something's wrong, Christian, I can see it, and I wish you'd talk to me about it. Please, let's get this off your mind."

He looked at her, studying her worried expression, gazing into her blue eyes, and hugged her hard. "Just hold me close, Leslie, my darling," he requested softly. "That's all I ask of you. I…I can't talk about it right now…perhaps later. But I need you."

She held him as he asked, thinking a little whimsically that they should take all the opportunities they could to cuddle flush against each other like this, before her pregnancy advanced to the point that they couldn't. Then she became aware that he was holding her so tightly that his arms trembled, and again she wondered what was going through his head. She stood patiently, slowly stroking his back, hoping he'd open up and talk soon.

"I thought," she heard Roarke's voice then, "that you might like to share your findings with my son-in-law. He and my daughter are here now, and perhaps it will help ease your mind to speak of it and get it in the open." Leslie and Christian both turned their heads and watched Benjamin Hulden precede Roarke out of the time-travel room and into the study; he took a chair while Roarke closed and locked the door. The Enstads looked at each other, and Leslie smiled.

"Come on, my love," she urged gently. "Maybe this'll help you too."

"Perhaps," Christian said with clear doubt, but he came in with her anyway and made sure she was comfortably seated in the other chair before pulling the computer-desk chair over to sit near her. Roarke sat behind the desk and regarded the three, then focused on Hulden, who looked as pensive as Christian did.

"What did you learn, Mr. Hulden?" Roarke prompted.

Hulden looked at each of them, then sighed heavily. "Prince Ulf died by drowning," he said in a flat voice. "But it wasn't by anyone else's hand. There was…a confrontation, over a woman. He'd brought back twenty or so women on his final voyage, and had already laid claim to one of them, a Chinese. But the prince's aide got a look at her and for some reason seemed to be very attracted to her. He tried to stay away, but something compelled the poor guy to keep going back to her. Then he and the prince were doing repairs on the longboat, and Prince Ulf went off to get some lunch or something. I'd gone to volunteer for maintenance, the way you said, Mr. Roarke…" At this Christian and Leslie looked at each other and then at Roarke, who winked surreptitiously at them. "…and I was so busy trying to figure out what might be going down, and who might be involved, that I didn't realize that Chinese girl had gotten out ahead of me. See, the king waylaid me and asked me to bring all the women to him for inspection or something, but I suppose the Chinese broke away and went off to find the prince's aide. Anyway, as soon as the poor guy was alone on the longship, she boarded and just threw herself all over him. Poor slob never stood a chance. Of course, the prince came back and caught them at it, and started bawling that his aide had betrayed him after a lifelong friendship, and before the poor guy knew it the prince had rushed him and knocked him over the port side. The seas were rough and there must have been some underwater current or something, because the aide never came back up again. It must have shocked the prince to his senses. He yelled something about having killed his best friend over a mere woman, then told the Chinese she would have two deaths on her conscience for the rest of her life and jumped over after his aide."

"_Herregud,"_ said Christian, astounded. "So you're saying he committed suicide!"

"Yup, that's what I saw at least. The crazy thing was that the Chinese must really have had it bad for the aide, because after the prince went over, she followed both of them into the drink. It was a case of murder and two suicides."

Leslie wrapped her hand around Christian's, and Roarke regarded Hulden with some indecipherable expression. "It appears that you have solved one of the various mysteries surrounding Lilla Jordsö's royal family," he said, "and that would render your fantasy a success, would it not?"

Hulden nodded slowly. "I guess it would," he said. "But somehow it's different now, since I actually met Prince Ulf in person and saw exactly how he died. And on top of that, I had to go and tell the royal family, because I was the only one who saw it."

Christian leaned forward, his pensiveness apparently forgotten in his interest over the now-solved mystery. "They must never have recorded what happened, then," he said, frowning. "After all, if they had, there would have been no need for your fantasy in the first place. Mr. Roarke, aren't you the one who repeatedly cautions your guests that there is no changing history? Mr. Hulden seems to have represented whoever actually told the king, the dowager queen and the two princesses. What they did with the information is anyone's guess. Perhaps they were shamed by it and decided to let the mists of history shroud it."

"That's very possible, Christian," Roarke agreed. "And then again, they may actually have recorded the information, but the documents bearing it could have been lost at some later date."

"Or maybe they're in such deep storage that no one's ever bothered going in to try to find them," Leslie offered. "The summer Arnulf died and Gabriella was crowned, Christian took me on quite a comprehensive tour of the castle and mentioned several large storage rooms on the west corridor, south wing, first floor."

"You have a point, my Rose," Christian realized, frowning thoughtfully. "We didn't go into those rooms, for there was no real reason to do so, but I recall looking into them as a child, in the days when I had an exploratory bent." He grinned at their chuckles. "Those storage spaces were the only rooms I did no more than glance into, for they were so crammed with assorted detritus owned by centuries of my ancestors that there was no getting inside to do any serious exploration. Perhaps one of my nieces or nephews, or one of their children, may find his or her curiosity piqued enough to make a long-term project out of organizing those rooms."

"That'd be a lifelong undertaking, I'll bet," Leslie said with a grin. "Maybe even one of ours would take it on."

"Then we'd better start training them early so that at least one of them will develop an interest in archaeology," Christian joked, setting off laughter. "In any case, I do thank you for having enough interest to solve this particular mystery, Mr. Hulden. My sister, Anna-Laura, is still here on the island on an extended visit, and there's no doubt she'll be very glad to learn what really happened to Ormsskägg's son."

"Excuse me, Your Highness, but isn't that Ormssvärd?" Hulden asked, confused.

Christian laughed and nodded, confessing, "Yes, but one day I accidentally called him 'Ormsskägg' in front of my sister, the family historian. She was so offended by it that her reaction struck me quite funny, and it became a habit with me. You're aware, of course, that his proper Viking name means 'snake's sword'. The improper one means 'snake's beard'. It used to be quite the source of amusement for my nieces and nephews."

"Oh, I get it," Hulden said and chuckled. "I can see where they'd get a kick out of it. Well, that's the story, anyway. Thanks, Mr. Roarke."

"Try to enjoy your evening if you can, Mr. Hulden," Roarke suggested. "I think it will do you good to have a chance to reacclimate to the present day before you return home."

Hulden nodded a little glumly. "Yeah, I suppose it probably would at that." He got out of his chair and looked back at them, then said, "Take care of those babies, Your Highness and Mrs. Enstad."

"We will," Christian promised and smiled. Hulden smiled back, then left, and Christian studied Roarke. "He had rather a long face, I think."

Roarke smiled in that mysterious way of his. "I believe he may be thinking of a certain young lady he met in the course of his fantasy," he said. "He appeared to have been quite taken with her." He focused on Christian and Leslie. "Why don't you stay here for the night, Christian. It's late enough now that there is little point in your returning home."

Christian agreed, and a little later he and Leslie retreated upstairs. "Father told me you came very close to drowning," Leslie said, staring at her husband once they had closed themselves into her old room. "He scared me to death when he said that…I wanted to go out and give those people who delayed him complete hell. Are you all right, my love?"

"I've recovered," Christian assured her softly, smiling a little. "My last thoughts before I lost consciousness were of you. I was certain I was dying, and my biggest regret was knowing I would never see you again, and that I would never see our twins at all. It felt like a great miracle when I awoke and saw Mr. Roarke there beside me. My lungs didn't feel full of water at all, though I admit they seem a bit sore. I must have coughed up quite a bit of the ocean before I finally awoke."

"I'm just glad you did," Leslie murmured, nestling against him. "Maybe it's time to forbid _you_ from going back in time anymore, never mind me."

Christian admitted, "To tell you the truth, my Rose, I don't think I really want to go back again. Or perhaps, if I do, I'd rather venture into much more recent history. It would be quite interesting, for example, to witness the storm that brought down King Johan's original bell for Premier University, and to see the ceramic bell hanging there."

"You and your storms, Christian Enstad," Leslie said, laughing. "After what you just went through, I'm afraid to even let you stand in the rain." He rolled his eyes playfully, and their gentle mirth was lost when he kissed her, deeply and fervently.

§ § § -- January 19, 2004

Christian accompanied Roarke and Leslie to the plane dock in order to give Hulden a small package on Monday morning. Their guest looked curiously at it. "What's this?"

"It's an English-language copy of a book on _jordisk_ history, written by my sister about twelve years ago," Christian told him. "I phoned her last evening and summarized your fantasy and what you learned. She was so amazed and delighted to have that mystery solved that she went into the village and bought you a copy of her book from the shop there, and autographed it for you as well. I hope you'll find it interesting reading."

"I know I will," Hulden said with a grin, shaking Christian's hand. "I didn't even know this book existed, so it'll be a big help in whiling away my flights home."

"You may have to save it for later," Roarke remarked casually. "Your seatmate on the charter plane has just arrived, and I believe you may wish to get acquainted with her."

Hulden looked around and spotted a slender woman with shoulder-length brown hair waiting her turn to bid them farewell, and Christian and Leslie looked as well. She approached them when she realized she had their attention, and Roarke said, "Miss Catherine Domwick, meet Mr. Benjamin Hulden. You two first met while sharing a fantasy."

Hulden and Catherine Domwick looked at each other in astonishment. "What was your fantasy, then?" she asked.

"I wanted to find out how Prince Ulf Magnusson died," he said. "What were you doing back in that era?"

"I just wanted to meet some of the earliest settlers of Lilla Jordsö," Catherine said. "Mr. Roarke told me that I couldn't go all the way back to the original landing of the first king, but he could get me pretty close. You were the guy who kept hanging around the prince's aide, weren't you?"

"That was me," Hulden said and grinned. "You're easy enough to recognize. You kept warning me and the aide that the princess from China had already been claimed. Say, do you really speak Chinese?"

Catherine's eyes widened. "You remembered! Yes, actually, I do, a little. The poor thing seemed incredibly lonely. I wish she hadn't ended up committing suicide…" The two began to amble away toward the plane, talking animatedly, forgetting utterly their final farewells to their hosts. Roarke and Leslie grinned at each other.

"Seems to me we did it again, Father," she said teasingly.

"So it would appear, my child," Roarke agreed.

Leslie turned to Christian then and said in a plaintive voice, "What I've been dying to ask you is why in heck you never surrendered to me while you were back in that era! I almost wondered if I had the right man."

Christian gaped at her in disbelief. "You were back there after all! But for fate's sake, Leslie, how do you think it would have looked? You were in the guise of an old crone, and in any case, I thought something had gotten into you, the way you screamed insults at me and did your utmost to try to break as many of my bones as you could reach."

Leslie blinked blankly at him and muttered in perplexity, "What…? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, Leslie, come on," Christian said impatiently. "Whatever happened to Rose to make her an old crone, she must have lived a very hard life…but clearly she wasn't decrepit enough to prevent you from taking a swing at me every chance you got."

Leslie's face cleared suddenly and her mouth slowly fell open; her eyes widened, and she began to grin. "Oh, no. You mean…you thought I was Rose?" At his nod, she started to laugh. "Oh Christian, you poor thing…no wonder you…oh my God! I wasn't Rose at all, my love…I was the Chinese princess!"

"Impossible!" Christian blurted, aghast, and looked at Roarke for confirmation. "She couldn't have been! Why would she choose that as her cover?"

"Indeed she was, my dear Christian," Roarke told him, extremely amused. "I simply added a few embellishments to her disguise. She mentioned that during several of her childhood Halloweens, she dressed up as a Chinese princess, and wanted to experience it for real. Everything took place as it historically should have, but I am afraid Leslie was very puzzled as to why you continued to resist her. We discussed it while you were sleeping yesterday afternoon."

Christian goggled. "But I…I never so much as entertained the merest thought!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Maybe, my Rose, your disguise was too good. I had an irresistible attraction to you, my darling, and I spent the whole fantasy trying to fight it for fear I would somehow betray you. And when you attacked me on the longship, I fell under your spell like a stone. Now I understand why!" He groaned aloud as a broadly grinning Roarke and a giggling Leslie watched him. "I wanted to die for the shame…do you know what a sheer relief it is to have the answer to that riddle and to know I really wasn't betraying you after all? Ach, it nearly killed me!"

"Literally," Leslie said with a smirk. Christian shook his head disgustedly at her, and she and Roarke both reached around and patted his shoulder with merry sympathy.

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_Next up: things are happening everywhere. Lauren gives birth, a quad has to decide what to do with his life, and another romance sputters into life. Stay tuned…_


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